Blood Lust: The Dream She Had Before
by ficscribbler
Summary: Marguerite and Roxton rethink their relationship after his Blood Lust is cured - what will this adventure's revelations lead each of them to decide?


**Blood Lust: The Dream She Had Before**

Summary: Marguerite and Roxton rethink their relationship after his Blood Lust is cured - what will this adventure's revelations lead each of them to decide?

Disclaimer: The Lost World does not belong to me. _*wistful sigh*_ It belongs to New Line Television, the Over the Hill Gang, et al, …

Author's Note_:_ This is a continuation of the end of Season One's 7th episode, "Blood Lust". Definite spoilers for Season One, Episodes 1-5, with hints of things to come.

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Despite her words of assurance to Challenger - "If it's one thing Roxton understands it's how to survive," so blithely spoken as they watched Lord John Roxton staring up at the moon - Marguerite Krux kept an eye on the tall hunter with carefully concealed concern as the three of them settled into camp for one last night before returning to the treehouse.

Challenger had wisely and patiently coaxed Roxton into helping him with the necessary camp chores of gathering their firewood for the night and securing the perimeter before darkness closed over the jungle. The usually energetic nobleman was still moving a bit sluggishly, as if his limbs felt heavy or awkward without the fluidity of the ultra-heightened senses he'd described earlier to Marguerite. But he was responding clearly now to the older man's questions and comments, not with that sort of slow, lost bewilderment with which he'd spoken on the hike back to their camp site from Calista's empty mansion.

Marguerite had meant it when she'd told the scientist that Roxton seemed to her to be more like the rest of them now. No longer did she see him as the confident, nearly-indestructible protector of their group, annoyingly impervious to fear and insufferably self-assured. This whole vampire experience had changed that; he really was just a mere mortal after all, as frail as everyone else.

Roxton had confided to the former heiress that the vampire-like infection had heightened his senses and instincts to incredible levels, causing him to feel as if he'd been 'home', as if he'd fit in perfectly. It was entirely understandable that it must've been a virtual paradise for the hunter to live in a state where he could "feel the wind as it crested the mountains a hundred miles away, feel the tiny heartbeat of a bird on the wing" and know all the answers to life's questions when he gazed up at the stars. Now that he was cured, that spectacular 'home' was lost to him. He needed to adjust to having lost the strong sense of belonging that had been so enthralling while he was under the infection's influence.

Marguerite understood Roxton's resultant feelings of missing identity more than any member of the expedition could have imagined. Such emptiness had been with her as far back in her life as she could recall. Yet despite her long acquaintance with the despair of belonging nowhere, that hollow place deep inside still pained her. How much more so, then, must Roxton be feeling his new lack, so cruelly, so abruptly lost, and not by his own choosing either.

Of course once his mind had no longer been clouded by the infection, or virus, or whatever it was, Roxton hadn't had any trouble understanding that the sickness was unnatural and had needed to be cured. But his heart, having experienced a place where he'd been at peace with his past and secure in the present and future - his heart wouldn't accept such a loss as readily as his intellect could.

Oh, she had no doubt, given the unexpected character and courage she was discovering in this man, that he would readjust. But she found herself aching on his behalf for the process he'd need to traverse in order to once again attain what she now knew to be as false a self-sufficiency as her own. Lord John Richard Roxton, too, was really only searching for the place he belonged . . .

The slender heiress paused in stirring the stew over the campfire to watch as the lanky red-headed scientist and his quiet companion piled their gathered armloads of sticks and branches nearby, enough of an addition to the existing stock to last through the night now. "About ten more minutes until this is ready to eat," she casually informed the men.

"Good," Challenger nodded. "Just time enough to check that the balloon is still securely anchored. Come along, Roxton, it will only take a few minutes," he declared with his usual hearty enthusiasm.

Roxton nodded, but lingered for another glance at Marguerite. She gave him a reassuring nod and gestured after the departing genius. "Go ahead, Roxton. It's fine," she said gently.

He hesitated a moment longer, scanning the shadowed clearing. "Stay near the fire," he said gruffly, then followed the other man into the darkening woods around their campsite.

Marguerite smiled at his awkward concern for her safety, but her amusement faded as she watched him follow Challenger, her brow puckering as she continued to ponder the situation she now faced.

Odd that she should feel this new affinity to the odious but admittedly handsome lord. She ought to be gratified to have learned of this hole in his armor. Ordinarily she'd already be scheming how to use this new insight to manipulate him for her own benefit. He'd been a thorn in her side since their first meeting, with his blatant hunting of her as if she were some easily attainable prey. As if that weren't bothersome enough, she'd recently begun to suspect that he might be interested in more than claiming her as a mere trophy… that he might want something deeper, something more sincere.

And most dangerous of all, beyond all reason and like no one else she'd known in her entire life's collective experiences, Lord John Roxton appeared to be developing an intuition that was able to pierce her protective masks more accurately than anyone she'd met up to this point.

It wasn't safe.

It wasn't safe at all.

_HE_ wasn't safe.

The semi-irritating, semi-amusing game of matching wits with the world-wise and somewhat cynical hunter was becoming a step into the unknown for Marguerite. And she didn't like venturing into the unknown.

Furthermore, it never ended well when she let herself get . . . sympathetic toward others in her life. The only way to stay safe, to stay alive, was to maintain her distance and employ multiple facades to shield her true purposes.

Yet she couldn't seem to suppress her inexplicable concern for the powerful nobleman, even though he was undoubtedly still stalking her for his own as-yet-unclear motives. At first she'd been positive he wanted only another notch on his belt. But such a simple goal wouldn't have required Roxton to express concern that she should be careful in Cassandra's cave, or lead him to keep young Ned Malone from trying to strangle her when she'd torn pages from the writer's private journal. No, she was sure that the handsome hunter now wanted something beyond a temporary interlude to satisfy his lustful desires, something more than simply ensnaring an elusive prey. He was not safe, and she should NOT be feeling these stirrings of strangely warm sympathy for this dangerous adversary.

It was totally illogical. Could she actually be beginning to - to _like_ … Lord John Richard Roxton?!

She couldn't afford to do that.

Yes, the man was proving to be worthy of her respect, and was lightening her days stuck here in this lost world. Their verbal sparring and her efforts to avoid raising his suspicions about her actions - not that she'd been as successful as she would've preferred to be in THAT direction, much to her chagrin - were keeping her on her toes, keeping her skills from dulling in this cursed backwater. But she should be able to use the man without actually _liking_ him! Yet . . .

Roxton could be surprisingly thoughtful, in spite of his frequent taunting. He'd packed extra baggage on this balloon trip so that she could have a well-padded cot in her tent and the pleasant luxury of a mirror sitting on the crate that served as her bureau. He'd even managed to tuck away a book that he'd noticed her reading back at the treehouse. These gestures had eased the sting over his trickery in not telling her up front that this trip would be an overnight venture and not merely a jaunt of several hours in the balloon. The appealing smile that had accompanied the presentation of the book as she headed to her tent two nights ago had actually made her heart skip a beat.

Thoughts of the attractive man were even filling her dreams in the oddest way, and she was a hair's breadth away from deciding to go ahead and flirt with the man. The game would relieve much of her remaining boredom, and it would be such fun to see just how far she could go in toying with him! If only her instinct was not literally _bellowing_ that this man was dangerous and should be avoided, not played with as she'd done with so many of the men who had crossed her path. No, there was more to him - dangerously more -

Marguerite's train of thought dissolved abruptly as Roxton and Challenger returned from readying the balloon for their morning departure.

She subtly but keenly eyed both men as she dished up some stew for them. Challenger looked more at ease now and was no longer watching their hunter-cum-protector with eagle-eyed suspicion or clinical concern. The dark-haired nobleman's boyish grin was back in place as he held out his hand to accept his bowl from Marguerite even while he continued to listen to his companion. "Thanks," he said warmly, taking time to smile his gratitude at her as well - but he never broke his concentration on the older man's words.

Apparently the work on the balloon and around the camp had sufficed to help Roxton recapture some balance toward normalcy, the routine chores steadying his thoughts and emotions.

Marguerite ate her own stew silently, then quietly retired to her tent with one of the canteens, scolding herself sternly for being pleased at his seemingly rapid recovery - or his successful concealment of any inner turmoil, at any rate. Again she reminded herself that she couldn't afford the luxury of allowing herself to grow attached to any of her fellow explorers. Either they would betray her . . . or end by feeling betrayed by her. It was in everyone's best interests for her to remain detached.

Still, as she began preparations for washing off the day's dust before going to bed she couldn't help recalling rather vividly the last time she'd fallen asleep here . . . two nights ago . . . and the initial sensations that had awakened her then . . .

Of course she'd experienced Lord Roxton's strength before this incident two nights ago, she recalled ruefully as she poured water from the canteen into the newly-cleaned wooden bowl that served as both a dish to eat from and as a wash basin. She began to unbutton her blouse, shaking her head over that first incident. It had happened months ago now, yet it was still fresh in her mind.

They hadn't even been on the plateau yet. He'd scooped her into his arms quite effortlessly - on the flimsiest of excuses, she remembered with a small smile playing about her lips; a British-to-the-core 'gentlemanly' concern over a tiny cut on her calf, received when fleeing from a caiman on the Amazon. Of course when she'd refused his aid, he'd quickly dispensed with the gentlemanly behavior, dropping her onto the hard ground as if she were no more than a sack of potatoes.

That memory was replaced by thoughts of their first attempt to escape the plateau, through the caves Jacoba had promised would lead to the outside world. Marguerite had benefited from Roxton's swift might again when he'd darted to her side, despite danger to himself, and pulled her from beneath the collapsing roof of the cave after she'd fallen. It had been a quick save, so fast that she had barely recognized the danger before they'd been joining the others in that wild dash to safety.

Just a little later that same day, when they were taking a break in a clearing and she'd tried to thank him for saving her life, the infuriating man had imprisoned her with one arm, silencing her with his other hand as he stilled her against his lean body so he could scan the jungle around them. Somehow he'd sensed the coming attack of the ape men. He'd taken control of the situation, commanding their defensive battle against the overwhelming odds with such calm assurance that they'd all instinctively obeyed him. Roxton's levelheaded leadership had been uncannily reassuring, even though defeat had seemed inevitable until Malone and Veronica led that T-Rex into the midst of the battle.

The brunette set her dirty jungle-stained blouse aside and started to lave off the grime that had accumulated on her skin over the past two days, still preoccupied with her memories of the recent months. Marguerite had done careful research on each member of the Challenger Expedition - her usual habit when entering into any venture where her life would depend on the actions of her companions - before they'd embarked from England. She'd been well aware of Lord Roxton's reputation as a hunter, a survival expert, and a fighter. But she'd still been impressed as she'd witnessed firsthand the extent of his physical hardiness, fortitude and skill when the British peer was pitted against gladiators in Tribune's horrid arena in the lizard city. Roxton had been magnificent, truly magnificent. His fighting skills seemed equal to anything at all, even intelligent lizards!

But her most outstanding memory of his strength was when he'd pulled her own gun from her hand in that cave Cassandra had sent them into not very long ago now. Afterwards he'd held her in his arms as she wept uncontrollably. His strength had been a haven of comfort and shelter in the aftermath of the hallucinations caused by the psychotropic fungus Summerlee had identified in the cave.

She shook her head abruptly, fiercely pushing back the memories of the nightmarish world her fears had conjured to drop her into - and her mortification when she'd recovered enough to realize that the sturdy hunter had been holding her while she'd been crying her traitorous heart out. As if she hadn't learned years ago not to reveal weakness by doing anything as foolishly self-indulgent as crying! And in front of Roxton, of all people! Marguerite grimaced at the misstep, resisted the shiver of longing for the safety she'd felt in his embrace, and pulled her thoughts back to the issue at hand.

Yes, the ease with which Roxton was capable of manhandling her was definitely reason enough for the suspicious beauty to be wary of him - but until two nights ago she hadn't seriously feared either his strength or the man himself.

It wasn't that Marguerite couldn't have stopped him, although it would've been difficult and may have required more time than his infection-enhanced power might have permitted her. No, her current trepidation stemmed from more than the fact that his passions had become a tad forceful that night.

Before Roxton had become more frenzied, his kisses and caresses had been bone-meltingly, earth-shatteringly delightful. _That_ was the terrifying thing she needed to beware of now.

She'd enjoyed it! She'd actually _wanted_ his touch, his kisses, the obvious pleasure he was taking in her body, the pleasure he'd been giving . . . With a sigh she sternly reined her thoughts back into line once again. If the circumstances had been just a little different, if he'd been a little less rushed and had continued the way he'd begun, she had to admit to herself that she would've yielded to his strength and passion with a willingness that was simply not acceptable.

She! Marguerite Krux, the Black Widow of Vienna, mysterious vixen and seductress, master spy and veteran survivor of any number of unimportant trysts - she would have yielded her heart and soul to his delicious lovemaking!

Fortunately, the vampirish infection had prompted him to become so rough and urgent that he'd actually bruised her shoulder. Even her neck was discolored where his sensuous mouth had seared her as he was sucking and nipping at her delicate skin before she'd pushed him away in conjunction with Challenger's timely arrival to jerk the hunter off of her.

She gingerly checked the still-bright bruises, then proceeded with lathering and washing her face. It was a good thing Roxton's disease-induced forcefulness had brought her out of her half-dreaming state into full awareness of what had been happening. The consequences would've been more disastrous than a few bruises - not that she held him responsible for the bruises anyway. She knew quite well that she didn't need to fear more bruising at the hands of the hunter.

Instead what alarmed Marguerite was her own reaction to his intimate touch and provocative kisses - any occasion that might give rise to a repeat of _that_ should be feared and must be avoided at all costs! There was no place in her plans for such emotional weakness - or for the distraction from her goals. She really should stop any further thought of the flirting she had been contemplating. After all, there were far safer ways to pass the time - even if they might not be as enjoyable.

She bent over the bowl, cupped her hands in the water, and rinsed the suds of her favorite soap - another thing he'd packed for her comfort - from her face. Eyes still closed, Marguerite turned toward the cot where she'd left a small towel to dry herself - and as if on cue, it was placed into her reaching hand. She straightened alertly, knowing who it must be before she actually opened her eyes and focused on him. "Are you going to make it a habit to enter without permission, Lord Roxton?" she rebuked coldly, patting droplets of water from her face and steeling herself against her previous sympathy toward him.

She had the satisfaction of noting that his ears reddened, but unlike many a lesser man who'd faced that icy tone of voice from the slender beauty, Lord Roxton held his ground. Rather than being distracted from his purpose by answering her question, or being disconcerted and leaving, Roxton stuck to his own agenda. "Marguerite, may I talk with you for a moment?"

She sighed with barely restrained reluctance. "If you must." she agreed curtly, and sat down on her cot. She didn't invite him to be seated, simply waited with barely civil politeness for him to speak.

Roxton shifted uncomfortably, his green eyes darkening to hazel as he noticed the bruises clearly visible on her creamy skin. His gaze skittered away from her for a moment, but he was no coward, and he quickly met her cool, impatient eyes again. It took him a moment to regather his thoughts as he concealed his confusion at this turn-about from her attitude earlier today when she'd listened to him talk about what he'd gone through while under Calista's sway.

Had he been mistaken this afternoon? Had he not seen compassion and - incredibly, considering this was the usually icy-hearted woman - even understanding and sympathy, earlier? Yes, he reassured himself, remembering how it had suddenly occurred to him that this woman couldn't possibly want to hear his ramblings . . . but when he would have stopped talking of his experiences, she'd actually invited him to go on, encouraging his confidences! She'd made him feel that he could tell her anything and everything about what he'd been going through, and she would truly understand and appreciate it.

Odd, that, when usually Marguerite welcomed personal conversation the way a raptor welcomed its prey - with the prompt intention of biting its head off. Her attitude right now was more what he'd come to expect from the mysterious woman. But this afternoon Marguerite had welcomed the sharing of his confused emotions - and her understanding had been a balm to his wounded heart, making him feel less alone and giving him something solid to hang onto as he struggled with the displacement of losing his heightened senses.

Marguerite's quiet supportiveness this afternoon must've been something like what Summerlee had experienced when the fey-eyed woman had taken unaccountable pity on him while he'd been ill and pretended to be the old man's long-dead wife. Roxton, Malone and Veronica had been gone from the treehouse when their aloof comrade had exhibited this uncharacteristic behavior, seeking the antidote of queen's jelly to counteract the massive dose of bee venom that was killing the eldest member of the expedition. George Challenger, who'd quite accidentally stumbled on the scene, had still been completely bemused over what he'd seen even though it had been hours later when he'd confided it to the others. The younger trio had been highly skeptical that the haughty heiress had deigned to comfort a sick old man, yet they had all witnessed Marguerite's unusual gentleness towards Summerlee since then. Why the old gent should be the only one to have found a soft spot in her otherwise hard and mercenary heart was beyond anyone's ability to guess. She certainly hadn't shown much sympathy or kindness toward anyone else -

Except for apologizing to Roxton for that crack about having killed his brother. Intriguing to find that there were, indeed, lines even Marguerite Krux didn't care to cross.

And come to think of it, he'd overheard part of her conversation with Ned while they'd been marching that Aztec warrior toward their imprisoned friends, and she'd been unusually generous in actually giving an answer to one of the many questions Ned had about her. She hadn't really been able to explain how she could read hitherto unknown languages on sight, to Malone's disappointment. But she'd at least admitted honestly that it was the very not knowing how she did it that had frightened her and put her into that fearful temper that had been scalding the two men.

In fact, her posture and expression now were nearly as forbidding as on that previous occasion. Had he totally misread her earlier compassion for his plight?

Well, whether he'd been right or wrong this afternoon, he had a clear duty to perform now. "I . . . I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my life today by shooting Calista when you did. That was a marvelous shot, by the way," he added sincerely. Was that a flicker of surprise in her green-blue eyes? Was it because she hadn't expected an acknowledgement of having saved his life, or because he was praising her marksmanship?

Other than that glint of - something - she made no response. He shuffled his feet a bit nervously, then straightened his shoulders and continued doggedly with the second and much more humbling part of his duty. "I also owe you an apology," he offered stiffly, his eyes once again slanting to the mottled discolorations that marred the porcelain skin of her shoulder and neck before his gaze returned to her increasingly impatient face. "The bruises -"

She didn't permit him to continue. "Consider it accepted," the puzzling woman shrugged indifferently, dismissing his attempt to square things with her. "Anything else?"

He flushed, but went on uneasily, "I hope you know . . . that you have nothing to fear from me. I don't normally - force myself - on women."

Marguerite quirked a brow at him. "I am not afraid of you, Lord Roxton," she assured him, obviously amused at the very idea.

He swallowed visibly, his eyes skittering away from hers again, flitting about her tent. His brow puckered as he remembered the last time he'd been in this tent.

Amazing how vividly he could still recall the tantalizingly heady scent of her that had drawn him into this small space. His heart had been pounding at the enticing sight of her lying there asleep. The feel of her soft curves as he'd lowered himself over her had only increased his ardor. The sweet taste of her silky flesh had been nearly intoxicating, and the heated increase in his arousal at her breathy whisper, _"This is a dream I've had before . . ."_

Roxton stiffened in sudden realization. A dream she'd had before?!

Marguerite had already tensed at the way his eyes were changing, recognizing that sexually-aware and appreciative male look all too easily. But when she saw his gaze sharpen suddenly, and noted his abrupt stillness, she had the sinking feeling that things were about to move back into that dreaded unknown territory again. She braced herself for whatever he might say next.

"No," he agreed slowly, contemplating the slender woman with a familiar warm gleam in his green-hazel eyes that made her shiver. "You aren't afraid of me tonight. You weren't afraid the other night, either, were you? Not at first, anyway . . ." he looked at her speculatively and smirked.

Now it was Marguerite who flushed uncomfortably. Blast! She should've realized he would remember that she'd not initially objected to his lovemaking! She should've been preparing for this instead of dwelling on her absurd attraction to the man! Just like any other man she'd ever known, he was going to try to use that moment of weakness against her! Well, she'd always been bloody good at adjusting to the needs of situations as they arose; she'd show him she was no one to trifle with!

She didn't like suddenly feeling defensive and vulnerable like this, and wished she had more than just her camisole and trousers between herself and the handsome lord while she was fighting this battle. She stood up abruptly, needing her full height to face him down over this. Her blue-gray eyes flashed resentfully at him as she folded her arms. Instinct said to attack fast, so she snapped, "I had no need to be afraid until you started _bruising_ me!"

There, Marguerite thought in satisfaction; that had successfully wiped away that smirk!

He winced, flustered by the direct hit of her words. But though his smug smile vanished, he had far too much experience with tracking elusive targets to be led off-topic by this admittedly fine attempt to decoy him off the trail he wanted to follow. Once again he reminded himself of her whispered words: _"This is a dream I've had before . . ."_ He reached out, slowly so as not to startle her, and gently touched her bruised shoulder. As he'd come to expect of the feisty woman, she defiantly stayed still, flat out refusing to pull away from his touch, or to show any outward reaction to it, for that matter. "You didn't deserve to be hurt," he agreed simply, effectively removing that particular ammunition from her arsenal of defensive weapons. Letting his fingers rest lightly against her warm skin, he met her narrowed eyes again, and allowed himself a twinkle of mischief. "Next time it won't hurt."

She bristled instantly. "There won't be a next time, Lord Roxton!" Her tone was sharp and decisive.

"No? Not even to fulfill that dream you've had before?" his voice deepened huskily as he ever-so-slowly stroked two fingers along her slim shoulder, over the lace strap of her camisole, to rest against the silky skin of her neck. It did incredible things to his heartbeat, but her expression remained impassive as she continued to resist moving or reacting to what he intended to stir in her. Roxton's admiration for this unusual woman increased at this display of self-control, knowing full well by the madly throbbing pulse at her throat and by the dilation of her pupils that she was not as unmoved as she'd like him to believe.

Marguerite waited another moment, enduring his continued caress long enough to be sure her voice would be steady, then, never taking her eyes from his teasing gaze, she drawled, "I never said it was _you_ that I'd been dreaming of, Lord Roxton."

For a minute she thought she had him stymied, but the glimmer of triumph in her eyes was doused when he suddenly grinned down at her in delighted remembrance. Slyly he prodded, "You dreamed of another man who ought to have been on watch instead of being in here, kissing you? That's quite a coincidence."

Chagrined, she frowned as she felt her face heat. Blast! What else had she said that might be used against her?! This was _exactly_ why she couldn't afford to start flirting with this man! He was simply too intuitively intelligent and dangerous to play the usual games - though she had to admit to herself, as she watched his grin widen into a full-blown smile at his successful verbal thrust, that it was undeniably invigorating to match wits with him.

He chuckled, knowing he had her locked in his sights now. Oh, but she was gorgeous all pink and flustered like this! Moreover, she'd been caught with no answer! "What," he couldn't resist gloating as she resorted to silently glaring up at him, her stormy eyes glittering with a mixture of irritation and outrage at his persistence, "the irrepressible Miss Krux, speechless?"

For a second she looked as though she might erupt into a total rage at the outrageous way he was basking in having the upper hand. His chin lifted and his shoulders squared as he met her fiery gaze, ready for battle with the indomitable Miss Krux.

Unexpectedly, Marguerite's lips turned upward, and the flame in her expression faded abruptly, replaced by genuine good humor, "It has been known to happen, once in a great while."

Roxton's brows shot up as he was taken off guard by both her admission and the way her lovely smile reached her eyes. No sign of her pique with him remained as her whole demeanor eased and warmed.

He never would've believed she could take his teasing so well! No, it had been far more likely that the volatile woman would react violently. He'd been more than half-braced to defend himself against an attempt to slug him or kick him – he'd been with her through too many conflicts by now not to have a healthy respect for her ability to administer effective blows to a foe. And yet here she was, smiling up at him, being perfectly charming! He shook his head, bemused. "You really are an incredibly complex woman, Marguerite Krux," he murmured, fascinated by this new side of her.

Marguerite further disarmed him by lowering her eyes almost bashfully and murmuring "I'll take that as a compliment. Thank you." She raised her eyes to his again, and smiled slowly.

Her full smile was absolutely breathtaking, a work of art as surely as the Mona Lisa was a masterpiece! Every bit of her attention was solely on him, her blue-green eyes sparkling up at him with an adoring expression that he hadn't seen before in this woman who usually repulsed or ignored every advance. But while he hadn't seen that look on _her_ face before, he was all-too familiar with it; he'd seen it to varying degrees in plenty of other women, more frequently since he'd inherited the family title. It was a sultry, tempting, possessive and predatory attitude - _intensely_ predatory in Marguerite's case, and apparently hypnotic, too!

All at once the tent walls seemed to be closing in around him. Roxton swallowed hard, and let his hand drop away from her warmth. Suddenly he wasn't so sure who exactly had whom in their sights. Instinctively, he took a step backwards, mentally scrambling for a reason to make a quick exit and increasingly alarmed at his seeming inability to pull his eyes away from her beautiful face. He could only be relieved that his feet still seemed capable of moving him away from her.

Much to his immense gratification at the prompt answer to his hasty heavenward plea for assistance, the sound of something spilling outside her tent, followed by some mild cursing, caused Marguerite's mesmerizing gaze to shift from his face to the tent opening. He almost sagged in relief as he was released from those eyes with … that _look… _in their depths.

Outside the tent, George Challenger muttered something about his clumsiness and called regretfully, "I'm sorry, Marguerite; that was the last of the coffee!"

Roxton remembered that Challenger had suggested Marguerite should take first watch tonight. That was supposed to have been his main reason for coming in here, to inform the heiress of her duty. "Er - I almost forgot; you have first watch, Challenger is taking second, and I'll finish up and wake you both with sunrise for the trip back to the treehouse." He backed away as he hurriedly spat the words out, so that he was completely outside her tent by the time he finished speaking. "Good night, Marguerite."

She stayed where she was, that … _LOOK_ … still in her eyes. "Good night, Roxton. Sleep well." Her voice was a soft purr that sent a shiver of alarm up the British nobleman's spine.

He gave one jerky nod and spun on his heel, leaving so quickly that he never even suspected the soft laugh that followed him, although Challenger heard it and glanced over curiously.

Marguerite turned to her camp bed and picked up the nice clean blouse the handsome hunter had so generously brought along for her when he'd packed for this surprise campout. She was still grinning at her ploy as she slid her arms into the silk sleeves. She'd scared the daylights out of Lord John Richard Roxton but good with that carefully crafted performance that shouted "wedding ring" to almost any red-blooded man in the world! Of course, it had to be used carefully, she thought smugly. Therein lay its usefulness, being able to discern which man would run for his life from a serious commitment like that, and which one might actually be encouraged by it.

There'd been some risk in using it with Roxton now, since his stalking of her was in flux and she wasn't quite sure of his goal any more - actually, she wasn't sure even _he_ knew what his goal was any more with regard to her. But now that he'd turned tail and ducked out of here as fast as he could, she could relax a bit. Whatever it was he wanted from her, it wasn't a life-long commitment.

Perhaps flirting with him - just a little - wouldn't hurt after all. That had been amusing!

Then Marguerite frowned as she noticed that she was having trouble buttoning her blouse. She glanced down, and her frown deepened as she realized her hands were shaking.

She sighed, her sense of victory fading. It was a good thing she had first watch. Perhaps she'd simply avoid sleeping at all tonight. She had the sinking feeling her dreams were going to be full of a certain handsome hunter whose touch made her almost forget to breathe. Those bloody dreams were bound to be even worse now that she'd actually had a taste of his kisses and caresses, instead of simply imagining such bliss.

No, flirting with that man would definitely be a mistake, given who she was - and given how potent _he_ was! Roxton was not safe. No, she decided with absolute finality. No flirting. Absolutely none whatsoever.

There wasn't a logical reason under the heavens that could persuade her to ignore her instincts about this. Certainly she would not risk endangering her goals - _could_ not risk endangering her goals, she corrected herself sternly - just because her silly dreams wanted some ridiculous happily-ever-after scenario. After all, this wasn't a childish fairy tale where a person could somehow magically put aside a whole life's experience and simply act on foolish and unreliable feelings. Realism demanded that she avoid Lord Roxton like the plague itself.

He simply did not fit into her future plans. Why, if Roxton had even a _hint _about her true motives for being here, who and what she really was - Well, she was perfectly aware of what she could expect. Betrayal inevitably followed whenever anyone had learned too much about her. She wouldn't give any of them that opening, especially not Lord Roxton.

Tucking in her blouse, Marguerite reached for her gun belt and strapped it around her slim waist. She picked up her rifle, checked that it was fully loaded, drew a steadying breath and stepped out of her tent to assume first watch.

Roxton, she noticed with a brief glint of amusement, was already in his tent with the lantern out. She must've _really_ scared him! Her humor faded as she reminded herself that he'd frightened her pretty thoroughly, too. Her inexplicable fascination with the man was clearly a vulnerability she couldn't afford to indulge.

If she hadn't remembered the Wedding Look just now, she would've had to admit that it was indeed Lord John Roxton who was haunting her dreams - and such an admission would've placed her in his power.

Challenger had remained by the fire until she emerged, and he cocked his head quizzically at her. She nodded to him, acknowledging that she was ready to take over the watch. He courteously tipped his hat to her before he retired to his own tent, set up between hers and Roxton's. Marguerite crossed the small clearing to a rock that would do for keeping watch. She settled herself gracefully against it, resting her rifle over the crook of one arm, and sighed wistfully.

No coffee.

Well, she doubted she'd need it to stay awake anyway, given the inner turmoil she needed to work through. This would be the perfect time to remind herself about her situation here, to remember that emotional entanglements and . . . love, for lack of a better word . . . were not meant to be in the life of Marguerite Krux.

She had to keep her focus on her own security and on who she was. She had a mission to accomplish - perhaps not one as vital to the world as some of her past tasks, but still, a vital mission to complete for her own sake. There was no room in her already complex life for a man like John Roxton, or for attachments to people like these explorers and their jungle hostess.

In his darkened tent, Lord Roxton lay on his cot and watched the unfathomable Miss Krux through the open flap as she began the first watch in the flickering light of the campfire. He'd actually been here, lowering his weary strained body onto his blankets, before it dawned on him that Marguerite had just managed to put one over on him.

She'd only been playacting back there in her tent! There was absolutely no way that she sincerely meant that predatory look; she'd simply used it to distract him from his teasing and to chase him from her presence.

He had to admit to himself that it was one mighty effective tactic! He wondered how the beautiful heiress had learned to do that - and why she'd felt it necessary to develop such defensive extremes.

Lord Roxton found himself beginning to smile with satisfaction as an ego-soothing revelation occurred to him: He must've had her cornered far more tightly than he'd realized for her to employ such a dire strategy in an effort to get him to back off. Hah! He'd been right! He grinned widely in the darkness; Marguerite Krux _had_ been dreaming of him!

Then his grin faded as he studied the woman across the fire from his tent.

What could her life have been like to make her so outwardly self-centered and cold? Why did she hide compassion that was capable of pretending to be an old man's dead wife to comfort him during his delirium? Why did she so deliberately resist showing vulnerability after something had nearly made her take her own life in that bloody Cave of Fear? How could the infuriatingly mercenary woman also be the tearful one he'd seen out on the balcony exhibiting unquestionably sentimental attachment to a simple locket that was probably next to worthless? Why would a woman whose main instinct was self-preservation have loyally stayed with Ned instead of fleeing from that Aztec warrior when she had the chance? How could the haughty self-assured woman capable of selling Veronica to Jacoba be the same woman who'd listened with such sympathetic comprehension to his ramblings today?

The lean hunter shook his head. Young Neddy was right. Marguerite Krux was a mystery - a potentially dangerous one, possibly even deadly, as Ned had written in his journal. Certainly she gave one the feeling that she was capable of cutting throats if it suited her.

But Roxton was more determined now than ever to peel away every layer of camouflage she would undoubtedly attempt to don, until he could figure out just exactly who the real Marguerite was.

What was it she'd said to him last week when he'd been laying down the law to her about not pushing Ned like she had, telling her she was going to have to behave? She'd warned Roxton not to make her his 'personal crusade', saying she didn't believe he was up to the challenge. Later, when she'd quietly apologized for having taunted him with being his brother's killer, she'd said it had been out of line even for her. So the prickly woman knew she'd behaved badly. Furthermore, her words suggested that she did it deliberately on at least some occasions. Why? Why did she keep them all at arm's length as she did?

This was a puzzle he intended to solve, having seen these tantalizing glimpses of a tender heart beneath that sharp-tongued, selfish, worldly-wise, jaded temptress persona she habitually practiced. He'd simply hold onto the memory of those rare instances when her façade slipped. And her whispered words . . . that dream she'd had before, of being with him? He wouldn't forget that, either. She could rebuff him as often as she liked now, but he was positive - well, almost positive - that Marguerite was just as attracted to him as he was to her.

He was bewitched, he decided as he watched her. She was sitting so still that she might've been a statue, her posture alert and poised to act should anything threaten their campsite.

Slowly he closed his eyes, knowing he needed to sleep if he was to recover from his experience with Calista and the odd infection. Calista! He opened his eyes again, and once more stared at Marguerite as she stood watch across the glade. Since he'd entered her tent he hadn't once missed those enhanced senses he'd enjoyed while infected with the vampirish blood lust. And although his body was tired, he retained a vitality very similar to that fully-alive sensation he'd thought lost forever when Challenger had cured him. Interesting: it seemed that Marguerite Krux had the same energizing effect on him as the blood lust! Why hadn't he noticed this before?

Or had he noticed, but not understood? Was this incredible energizing effect she had on him the allure he'd felt since meeting her? Perhaps this was the thing that drew him to her, like a moth to flame . . . an apt allusion, for he was sure to be burned in the process of getting closer to her.

But closer he would be, he vowed. He closed his eyes again, relaxing deliberately. He was going to have to get all the sleep he could, because he'd just decided that he was definitely going to make Marguerite Krux his personal crusade after all.

He had a feeling he'd been more right than he knew when he'd told her she was a woman of fire and steel; something deep inside kept telling him that the beautiful, mysterious lady deserved to be saved from whatever demons were prompting her to act as she did. Lord John Roxton was just the man for the job; a good crusade was exactly what he needed in his life.

Besides, he thought to himself with a faint smile tugging at his lips even as he began to drift off to sleep, he was the man of her dreams . . . and sooner or later he was going to get Marguerite Krux to admit it!

************


End file.
